


it's gonna be a bumpy ride, but it sure beats standing still

by ilaeth



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Adulthood, Anxiety, Best Friends, Bokuaka - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Future Fic, Gen, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, Platonic Life Partners, Platonic Relationships, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23884174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilaeth/pseuds/ilaeth
Summary: From outside the salon the sound of passing bikes and people filter through the letterbox and open window. It’s summer and the salon sits in a direct line of sunlight. Even though it’s the evening it’s still fairly warm inside, but Kuroo couldn’t feel any cooler. There’s a pit of nervous energy in his stomach. He’s relaxed enough; he has two of his closest friends in the same room as him, and he knows he’s good at his job, but the looming thought of 'what if no one comes tomorrow?' won’t leave his mind. He’s been worrying himself sick for the past two months. Tonight, the day before the official opening, he feels worse than all those weeks combined.or, bokuto gets a haircut on the eve of kuroo's salon's opening day.alternatively, everyone loves kuroo and they will make sure he knows it.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Bokuto Koutarou & Kuroo Tetsurou, Kozume Kenma & Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	it's gonna be a bumpy ride, but it sure beats standing still

**Author's Note:**

> the alternate theory to "kuroo is in jail"
> 
> note that this isn't romance centered. imply whatever you like! i just wanted to right some fluff about kuroo because he deserves it
> 
> title taken from 'bumpy ride' by the hoosiers

“Comfortable?”

“Like a baby in a cot!”

“Alright, alright,” Kuroo huffs a laugh under his breath. He tucks a towel into the back of Bokuto’s shirt and eases him down to the sink basin. “Tilt your head _baaaaaaaack…_ there we go.”

“You’re real good at this, Kuroo,” Bokuto compliments, fingers laced over his stomach with a happy smile on his lips.

He quirks a grin. Kuroo turns on the showerhead and waits for the water to warm, aiming at directly down the drain as it heats. “Well, I _did_ go to college for it.”

“But still.” As the warm water hits his scalp Bokuto shudders and closes his eyes. Kuroo holds it a few inches from his head and distributes the water evenly, running his fingers through the tips of Bokuto’s hair to make sure every strand is damp. The water turns from clear to murky black as the dye loosens from the follicles and washes away. “Feels nice.”

“You’ve got goosebumps all up your arms,” Kenma comments. There’s a small smile on his lips, too, that’s barely concealed behind the screen of his Switch. On the rotating chair a few feet away he peeks up over the rim of the screen.

“Well, yeah. It’s like having a bath but without the hassle of getting naked.”

“I’d _hope_ you wouldn’t get naked in my salon.” Kuroo scrubs his fingertips into the hair to loosen the dye at his hairline. The water runs darker as more dye joins it. “Not only would it make this appointment a lot more illegal, but I think you’d be banned from playing at the Olympics again if the public caught you lounging butt-naked in a hairdressers.”

“Could they really?”

Kuroo and Kenma share a quiet, knowing look, before they return to their respected tasks. “Anyway,” Kuroo amends, setting the showerhead aside. He lets Bokuto’s hair run its excess water into the basin and down the sinkhole as he pumps a few dollops of shampoo into his palm. “I’m gonna shampoo the hair now, okay? Gonna poo it.”

“Poo,” Bokuto repeats, delighted, tilting his head back further to give Kuroo better access. As he massages his fingers in, working out any loose parts of dye still clinging to the strands of hair, the goosebumps pick back up. He can’t help but smile at the sight. Bokuto is far too easy to please, and for someone like Kuroo who, maybe sometimes sadistically, likes having an edge over people, he can’t help but apply a little more pressure so it becomes less of a cleanse and more of a head massage. 

The suds reach his wrists by the time he’s finished lathering up his hair. He washes it out with gentle strokes of his fingers, parting the hair between his knuckles, washing it until the shampoo runs down the drain in murky bursts of water. “What brand is it?” Bokuto asks, peeking up as Kuroo dries his forehead with a towel. “It smells really nice. Like, fancy.”

“Well, it _is_ fancy.” Kuroo pumps three dollops of conditioner onto his palm before running it through the newly-dyed tips of Bokuto’s hair. “Twenty pop a bottle.”

“ _Twenty?_ _!_ That’s a meal right there!”

Kuroo sucks his teeth. He meets Kenma’s gaze over the rim of his console again, both of them biting back their smiles. Bokuto's charming nature is completely unintentional. It’s what makes him so popular, Kuroo thinks, because he can’t help but make people smile even if it isn’t what he sets out to do. There’s no surprise then as to why Japan as a whole adores him, or how he managed to get someone as stoic as Akaashi to fall head over heels in love. Even his rivals can’t dislike him, Kuroo knows, both from personal experience and mere observation at his games during university. 

“Well, it’s worth it. I think so, anyway.” Kuroo runs his fingers through the conditioner sitting on the tips of his hair, just about brushing the roots, and rinses his hands. “We’ll let that sit while I get you an apron and my scissors, alright?”

“No problem-o,” Bokuto replies, looking completely at ease in the reclined chair. “Kenma, are you going to get your hair done, too?”

“No,” he says, easy and quiet, thumbs moving rapidly against the buttons on his console. 

Bokuto nods like it’s the most insightful answer he could’ve possibly gotten in return. He opens his eyes to look over at Kuroo who tucks a pair of scissors, a comb, and a few clips into his belt. The salon is squeaky clean and Bokuto thinks that even if Kuroo’s style is about looking handsomely dishevelled that he fits right in here. “Can’t believe I’m your first customer,” he remarks. “I’m honoured.”

“Well, who else would I have ever wanted to cut hair first on?”

“You’ve been doing my hair since 2010, though.”

“Not with a licence.” He migrates back to the sink basin to switch the shower head on and begins working out the conditioner. The water is warm and the pressure is minimal as it catches against Bokuto’s hairline. Kuroo’s got those long piano fingers that, for some reason, work excellently at detangling the unruly tufts of hair Bokuto currently has tipped back in a sink. “Besides, I’m cutting your hair with real hair cutting scissors instead of fabric ones now.”

“Not much of a difference, is there?” Bokuto opens his eyes to peer up to Kuroo, who’s barely restraining a grin. “What? Is there?”

“Only a little,” he lies. Kuroo thinks he can make it work either way, but he wouldn’t admit that to customers. Not even Bokuto. He’s _professional_ now, after all, tucked away in a renovated salon in the heart of Tokyo. He knows he’s a little bit of a late bloomer to his career, having flitted between casual hair cutting and a degree in chemistry for two years before he tossed school to the wind and pursued what he really wanted to do, but would like to think that a dream fulfilled late is better than never.

And he’d be lying if he said it was easy. By twenty four he’s only just started his career while Kenma’s a self-made millionaire, CEO, and Bokuto’s gone pro for the last few years. He’d like to think he’s made it, even if he’s a little late, because he’s achieved all he’s ever wanted: to own his own salon. Or, business, more specifically. Working three jobs for the last two years and an investment on Kenma’s half has made every moment worth it.

“Right,” Kuroo announces, cutting off the water stream. From his right he picks up a towel from a wall rack and motions for Bokuto to sit up. “I’m gonna dry it off for you and get you trimmed.”

“Nice,” he replies, shifting as to let Kuroo slide the towel behind his neck. It catches the drips of warm water that trickle down from his hair. With a different towel Kuroo pats his hair dry, letting Bokuto lean his weight into the touch and move with the direction of pressure.

The right wall of the studio is lined with four rotating chairs, furnished in hot-red leather. Kuroo pins it down half as an homage to Nekoma and half because he really likes the colour red. He also knows he looks good in it.

He sweeps the apron around his shoulders and lays it over Bokuto’s chest, fastening it at the back of his neck. Kuroo cranks the chair up a few inches before resting his hands on both sides of Bokuto, standing behind him, but meeting his gaze in the reflection of the mirror. “The usual?”

Bokuto nods. Kuroo pulls out his comb and runs it through the damp tips of Bokuto’s hair, detangling it with care and patience before he sections off clumps of it and twists them away to clip with a hair grip. Kenma, in the chair to his right, poorly conceals his interest. Kuroo can see his game paused in the reflection of the mirror in front of his chair, and even if his eyes are locked on the screen, his fingers don’t move. 

With familiar ease Kuroo trims and tidies up the hairline at the base of Bokuto’s neck with a clipper. It hums quietly, vibrating against the tan over his skin. “You’re awfully sunkissed,” Kuroo comments, smile tweaking. He runs the clipper up to cut off some length from behind his ear. “Barcelona or Rome?”

“Both! They were _boiling._ Let me tell you, I thought I was going to pass out and get heat-stroke.”

“And here you are,” Kuroo shifts the clippers up before running them down. Small strands of silver and slate-grey float to the floor, “in your Greek-god glory.”

“Alliteration,” Kenma comments. “Well done.”

“You know, I don’t like how hot it is. Don’t get me wrong, I _love_ the summer, but it’s so hot you can’t even go outside during the day, y’know? You’d have hated it, Kenma. I thought _I’d_ have loved it, but I didn’t!” A dramatic sigh. “Food’s great, though.”

The clippers turn off. Kuroo combs down a section before catching it with two fingers, straightening it, and trimming along the line. “How did it all go?”

“Not too bad. Say, did you know Hinata’s joined the team? Little Hinata. From Karasuno. Kenma knows the one.”

Kenma peeks up. His eyes twinkle at the name. “He told me a while back.”

“Ginger Hinata?” Kuroo asks. As if _any_ other Hinata would garner that reaction from Kenma.

“Yep! Crazy times, how everyone manages to come back together in the end, huh?”

“Not everyone, hopefully.” 

Kuroo has already prepared for the inevitability that one of these days Daishou will saunter through his salon’s doors and pester him for a haircut. He has already set out the razor he’s planning to shave his head clean with.

“Positivity now, Kuroo.” Bokuto chides, waggling his finger. “You know mother nature will be listening, with all that karma and good brownie points. You’re working in Tokyo. Maybe a celebrity will walk through your doorway.”

Kuroo laughs. He unclips another section of his hair and begins to cut. “I don’t think you realise that _you’re_ a celebrity, Bo.”

“What? Me?” His eyes widen in the reflection of the mirror. “I mean--well, maybe. I _was_ in that Nike ad.”

“You also played in the Olympics,” Kuroo reminds him, running his clippers up Bokuto’s sideburns. “You’re too modest for your own good.”

“Well, I don’t wanna gloat.” 

“I think you get gloating rights when you’ve modelled for Nike and have your face plastered on deodorant sticks and water bottles.” He snips away at the length with the silver blades of his scissors before combing it straight and trimming another section. “How’s Akaashi doing?”

“He’s good! Our next date is on Thursday. Gotta get trimmed up nice and clean for a fancy restaurant.”

“You know,” Kuroo comments, combing a section back from his temples, “you should just make it official. Everyone practically _knows_ you’re together, and you’re both exclusive to one another, right?”

Bokuto hums, face scrunching in thought. Kuroo straightens the line of his head before combing a section back from the crown of his head and trimming. “I mean, we both wanna take it slow. Not rush anything and make it official, y’know?”

“You’ve been going on weekly dates for the past six years.”

“Still!” Bokuto opens his eyes to peer up at Kuroo in the reflection. “Still. What’s that Elvis song? Only Fools Rush In?”

“I don’t think Elvis would say six years is a rush.”

“Leave them be, Kuro,” Kenma pipes up. He’s set his game to the side and has his legs tossed over one arm of the chair while he leans back against the other. “They’re young and in love.”

“Oh, says you, Kenma. You sound like an old grandmother.”

Kenma pinkens with embarrassment. He clears his throat and picks the bottle of hairspray he’d been reading back up, suddenly taking great interest in the ingredient’s list. 

From outside the salon the sound of passing bikes and people filter through the letterbox and open window. It’s summer and the salon sits in a direct line of sunlight. Even though it’s the evening it’s still fairly warm inside, but Kuroo couldn’t feel any cooler. There’s a pit of nervous energy in his stomach. He’s relaxed enough; he has two of his closest friends in the same room as him, and he _knows_ he’s good at his job, but the looming thought of _what if no one comes tomorrow?_ won’t leave his mind. He’s been worrying himself sick for the past two months. Tonight, the day before the official opening, he feels worse than all those weeks combined.

“Nervous?” Bokuto pipes up. Kuroo doesn’t realise his hand has stalled in his hair. Bokuto looks uncharacteristically youthful with his usual spikes flattened against his forehead. Despite the obvious change in his appearance his smile is the same; warm, reassuring, and kind. His hand comes up to pat Kuroo’s. “Don’t be silly. There’s a reason you’ve got so many loyal customers, Kuroo.”

“You don’t count.”

“I’m not on about just me, even if I _do_ technically count. I’m talking about that English teacher who you dye the roots for, and the florist, and the lady who breeds those cats. Even Akaashi. And you _know_ how fussy he is about his hair.”

It lessens the knot behind his ribs. Kuroo chuckles nervously and realises that as he’s combing Bokuto’s hair that his hands are shaking.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Kuro,” Kenma says. He peers over with those all-seeing eyes of his, still and honest. “I wouldn’t have put money into your salon if I didn’t have faith. You’re a real worrywart.”

“Kenma’s right! I mean, I’m biased ‘cause I love you, but you make me feel confident when you do my hair.” Bokuto tilts his head back to look up at Kuroo, though he’s upside down. “Even if the entire world is against you, we’ll still be here.”

His smile wobbles. Kuroo exhales a shaky sigh, turning away to wipe his eyes. “Thanks, guys.”

“Oh, don’t cry!”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He turns back to Bokuto’s head, tilting it forward and straight again. “I haven’t eaten in two days. Nor slept. I’ve just got the shakes.”

“You’ll be one-hundred-thousand per-cent fine. We’ll both be here for the first day, anyway, right Kenma?”

Kenma hums his agreement. Bokuto continues, “Kai and Yaku will come. Hell, you _know_ it’ll be a success if Daishou comes! All the way just to see you.”

Kuroo laughs at that. The cold ball in his stomach settles, diffusing like ice melting under a hot lamp. He tidies up the rest of Bokuto’s hair, blow-dries it, and styles it with gel. By the time he’s done the sun has nearly set, and it casts a warmth into the store that reflects orange against the floor’s tiles. Kuroo unclasps the apron and pulls it off. The hair flutters to the ground, silver against white. “Done.”

“Perfect,” Bokuto remarks, and Kuroo knows he means it. He stands and admires himself in the window, gently touching the spikes on his temples and crown before spinning with a bright grin. “Perfect! As expected, ‘course.”

“Stop being cheesy. You’re going to make me sick,” he remarks through his smile, brushing up the stray hairs on the floor with a broom. Still, Bokuto comes over to squeeze him in a hug, pressing their cheeks together. 

From across the store the bell above the door tinkles. Looking windswept and a little sunburnt Akaashi enters, a shopping bag in both hands. “Sorry, I just got out of work.” His gaze lingers on the two before a smile, as rare as they come, pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Lovely work, Kuroo-san.”

“Tell your boyfriend to stop being so formal,” Kuroo nudges Bokuto, who peels off of him to hover over the shopping bags Akaashi has. He rummages through them, curious, like a dog nosing at a bush of flowers. 

He hoists them from Akaashi’s grip and carries them with ease, casting a final look to the store. “Well, Kuroo, I’ve got to be honest: this brings a tear to my eye.”

“Now _you_ sound like an old grandmother.”

Bokuto, true to his word, wells up.

“Oh, stop it.” He sighs, dropping the broom to come over and pat Bokuto’s back. “I think you’re more emotional than Kenma is, and he’s meant to be my business partner.”

“I’m just so _proud_ of you,” Bokuto gushes, wiping his eyes into the sleeve of his jersey. “I really am, bro.”

“I agree on the sentiment,” Akaashi continues, formal but equally as heartfelt. “You’ve worked tirelessly to achieve this, Kuroo-san. Be proud of yourself. Goodness knows we are.”

“Stop it, you two. Go home. Go eat--pie, or whatever you shiny happy people do with your lives.”

As Bokuto begins to cry a little harder Akaashi offers him a reassuring smile. He ushers Bokuto out of the shop and into their car, leaving Kuroo and Kenma to tidy up before the opening day tomorrow. He finishes sweeping up the hair before binning it and steaming the tiles one last time before heading home.

“Kuro,” Kenma calls, tucking back the bottles into their respective places. Kuroo looks up, the skin around his eyes red and his own eyes glassy. “I’m dead serious about what I said. Everything will turn out perfect. You deserve nothing less.”

“Kenma,” he groans, reaching up to scrub his eyes, “not you, too.”

“I’m saying it to get it through your thick skull.” He eases the steamer from his hands and finishes up the job. With a stiff pat to his shoulder he pins Kuroo in a look that says _don’t argue_. “Go sit down, drink some tea, and relax. I’ll clean this up.”

It’s hard to follow advice but Kuroo does it, if only to appease Kenma, and only then does he realise just how thoroughly exhausted he is. Sitting against the leather of a rotating chair he brings a hot mug of tea to his lips to sip, watching his partner make up the finishing touches to _Top Cat_ before they head out for the night.

“Ready?” he asks, returning from the back room to put the cup in the sink and the steamer in the closet.

Kuroo draws in a shaky breath, his chest expanding, before nodding with determination. “Ready.”

As they leave he double, then triple, checks the locks on the salon. With the lights off and the store cleaned it looks just as he’d dreamed of when he was younger; modern and sleek with smart pops of colours. He’s always had an eye for style but Kenma had played the largest part in designing and decorating. Kuroo lingers by the door, horribly sentimental, and his time Kenma doesn’t push. He stands with him, too, before reaching down and taking his hand. His fingers are cold and his hand is small but against Kuroo’s it weighs him down to ground him to reality. He gives Kenma’s hand a little squeeze and laces their fingers together.

And, despite his worry, he has a feeling that everything will turn out alright. Even if some hiccups face the road ahead he knows he has the best people behind him to catch him and pick him back up again. Kuroo draws in a breath, squeezes the hand laced with his, and smiles. “Let’s do this.”

**Author's Note:**

> take a shot every time i write that one of them smiles
> 
> thank you very much for reading! any and all comments are appreciated!


End file.
